


One Dollar and Eighty-Seven Cents

by violetlolitapop



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon Timeline, Fluff, M/M, i wrote this in 2013 for a secret santa exchange, i'm slowly archiving everything i've written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 10:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17180999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetlolitapop/pseuds/violetlolitapop
Summary: “I’m glad that we’re allies now,” America eventually says and looks like he really means as much. “I didn’t get a chance to really talk to you in Tehran like I wanted but… I’ve missed you, y'know.”xxxIn which, there is a gift exchange, and some feelings stay the same.xxx





	One Dollar and Eighty-Seven Cents

“You’ll get frostbite, you know.”

His eyes flicker up at the speaker - a simple soldier, one of no discernible rank - and says nothing in return.

He figures that the bored expression he posses with his half-lidded gaze and pale eyelashes dusted with fallen snow says enough on just how well he knows that little statement to be true.

It does the job, and almost immediately does the soldier leave with nothing but a small grunt of disapproval in his wake. In this regained sense of solitude, he continues on with his work.

Honestly, the possibility of him forgetting is not the wrong assumption to have made from the soldier’s point of view. The air is beyond cold, the chill bites at his hands, and he of all people should know better than to expose them to the harsh elements of winter. However, the kind of detail work needed to make his creation perfect cannot be reached with the bulk of gloves hindering him, and comforts such as a warm place to work has not yet been made available.

So, in the end, he clutches the bit of wood he's taken from the small pile he’s been given as rations for heat in his hands tightly and blows hot air on to them for whatever warmth he can, and he takes his knife to it once more. He has a deadline to make, he must work quickly. This thought alone becomes a steady mantra that harmonizes with the shaving of wood and pushes him forward.

He does end up contracting frostbite, and his boss is not pleased with him, but to him it is only a small price to pay.

Besides it heals quickly enough in any case, really, there’s no reason to fuss over a day or two of discomfort. It’s also quite fortunate for them to heal just in time for the next meeting between the Allied Forces.

He continues to rub at his hands out of mere habit. It’s enough to call England’s attention, who in turn says nothing but does raise an eyebrow in his direction. He ignores it and does what he can to focus on what is being discussed, which is nothing of great importance.

Or rather it is, but the lack of appointed leadership among their company makes it difficult to have any form of worthwhile discussion minus the constant snarking and belittlement. Particularly coming from both England and France; the former poking at the latter’s still growing underground resistance as France does his damnedest to shout over England’s caustic words to defend his own form of strategy.

China on the other hand has his own worries that consume him outside of what goes on in Europe. He buries himself in documents and reports, looking just as haggard and worn as the rest of them, loudly telling the two arguing over him to settle down every other second and goes from complaining about not having had a decent meal in so long to capturing America’s interest in topics from their shared conference in Cairo only last month while still keeping his face firmly planted in his paperwork, and America…

Normally the boisterous blond is at the center of the hoopla, either subtly instigating the already happening commotion or lighting a fire of his own. As of right now though, he’s oddly quiet, even frowning. Overall, there seems to be this air of disapproval surrounding him as he watches the three in front of him, and it would be dishonest to say that it’s not an amusing change of pace.

Naturally, when his arms uncross and posture straightens, interest is piqued. America wants to say something, it’d be the only conclusion to make from the change.

“Hey…” He starts out with his normal tone of voice, and when it becomes apparent that it’s nowhere near enough to gather the attention of everyone lost to their own devices his eyebrows furrow and a dark scowl mars his face.

“That’s enough!” he shouts and slams his hands down against the table’s surface.

It’s effective enough, he’s now at the center of attention and silence rings clear in the room. Not only are the others surprised, America himself still remains to looks displeased. Though such a look only last so long before it falls into something a little more forlorn: his eyes soften, frown lifts, brows knot up in worry rather than frustration.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “It’s just… Look, I’m gonna be leaving soon and I don’t even know when I’ll be coming back, if I'l be coming back, and I would just like it if we could, I don’t know, actually do something?”

It’s a reminder as to why they’ve collected themselves here despite the chaotic ongoing of war continuing on without them present on front lines. Even with the great probability of conferences occurring through the duration, America’s absence as he goes on to join his men on the coasts of New Zealand will be all too noticeable. They’ll be one Allied Nation less, and with China barely able to congregate due to the great distance he must travel, it will be an even greater loss.

“China, we can talk about all that tomorrow since I’ll be heading out East with you in the morning. Right now though, I’d like to know how far Japan has been progressing in the Pacific. I have my own stats from my own men already lined up on the coasts of Oceania, I’d like to have another perspective from the opposite side, but we’ll get to that in a minute.”

America’s attention then goes to both England and France, and it goes without saying that while both appear at ease in their respective seats they are paying heed to what he says.

“And you two, while I’m away doing all this, I’m gonna have to give you a run through with what my boss wants to do. He’s talking about letting Dwight in on whenever you guys meet for ‘strategic reasonings’, but I’m doing what I can to convince him that’s a bad idea. Anyway, England I’ve got intel for you to look over since it has to do with your boys, and France I wanna leave with as much as I can know about your Underground so we can figure a way to help you guys out. England might give you some shit for it, but I’m all for it, just so ya know.”

He throws him a smile that is both reassuring and still just as charming as ever, and it lingers even as he finally turns to the last member of their group.

“How you holding up, big guy?” he asks. “You’ve been awfully quiet through all this.”

Russia, who this entire time has been waiting patiently as events unfold before him, has his own small smile planted on his face. He suddenly feels the weight of the small wrapped objects in his pocket, and he regards America a little more fondly than before.

“It is hard times for us all, my friend,” he replies. “There is still much for me to do in the Ukraine.”

“We’ll see if we can figure out something there.” America then claps his hands together, stands, and finally takes his place at the podium. The conference is finally beginning. “Right then, first things first, China!”

From then on, Russia sinks back into his chair and watches their meeting finally begin to take place. He listens to the conversations around him, participates when it his time to answer and his time to present. While all are quite serious matters, the efficiency in which they are able to cover every one of their issues takes only some hours rather the entire day as it would normally. Before long, belongings are being gathered and there’s small talk of what to do now - if there will be some time to have dinner together before returning to embassies - and Russia remains still in his seat, now unsure of that small weight kept safe in the confines of his pocket.

Eventually his anxiety grows to the point where he’s ready to abandon his intentions all together. He quickly shuffles everything he needs back into the small case he’s brought with him and rises up from his seat. However, before he’s able to leave the room, he hears America calling out for him.

“Hey, Russia, can you hang on a sec?”

His eyes are wide with surprise, but he does not refuse the request. He’s rooted to the spot, able to do nothing more than watch as China gives his goodbyes, he’ll be going back to where he is staying despite the invitation given to him for a meal, and as both France and England are shooed away by America with promises of catching up straight away, they should go and make reservations somewhere, he’d like a night with them before flying off beyond their reach, what he needs Russia for right now has nothing to do with the war effort, it’s all personal.

With the others gone, the atmosphere grows a bit awkward between them. What with Russia’s expectations on what this could possible be about and the air of nervousness rising from America so uncharacteristically, it’s only natural.

“I-ah…” America begins and instantly trails off. Without so much as another word, he reaches into the front of his uniform jacket, approaches the spot where Russia stands, and says, “I know it’s early, but I’m leaving tomorrow and everything and I’m not gonna be seeing you again for a helluva lot longer than just past Christmas and it’s not even wrapped I’m sorry about that no time you know? Just barely finished this last night and everything.”

He’s babbling, and Russia finds it absolutely endearing how well it pairs with the light pink dusting his cheeks. He almost doesn’t notice the small objects America brings out into the open, but notice it he does, and knows already that it is meant as a gift for him, though what it is he’s not sure.

“Don’t really have time to shop around,” he jokes. “So I just had to, just had to do what I could. It’s not great, but…”

America doesn’t finish his sentence. He only holds his hand out, palm facing up, and presents him with a fairly nice sized wallet made from worn looking leather and large stitching. Russia’s hand moves slowly, hovers over the gift before taking it into his own hand and runs his thumbs over it.

He can feel the material even through his gloves, sees how well crafted and durable it all is, and clearly made by hand. He feels his throat tighten.

“Some of the stitches are uneven,” America goes on to say. “Sorry about that, I’m a little out of practice. And the leather’s kinda worn, it’s secondhand, but that’s gonna hold for a long time, you can count on that.”

He’s looking for some form of approval, and Russia would love to give him such, but finds himself a little more than just speechless. His hands clutch around it. He hadn’t been the only one…

“You should know by now that my Christmas is not in December,” is what he ends up saying and mentally kicks himself for it. Of all the things…

America lets out a laugh, though not his normal one. He looks a little more on edge all of a sudden. “Yeah, well… I didn’t think that I’d be able to do that either, to tell the truth. So it’s a little more extra on the early bit, I suppose.”

“No, I was not meaning, I… Thank you, Amerika. Thank you.”

His words cause the greatest reassurance. America instantly relaxes; the tension in his posture leaves entirely and his smile is more real now. Before he’s able to say anything, Russia holds on tightly to the wallet while digging into the pockets of his own long coat.

“Your own Christmas,” he says all the while. “When I had heard that you will be spending the holiday so far away from us all, I was wanting to give you something before you had to leave.”

It’s a small package that he pulls out, wrapped in nothing but plain brown paper and tied with simple string. He gives it the same way America had given his, and he receives it much the same as well. He tears into it with a little more vigor than anticipated, and now it’s Russia’s turn to be racked with nerves as the small cylindrical whistles he finds beneath the paper.

America says nothing at first. The wrappings drop from his hold as he inspects his gift, takes it and holds it carefully in his hands as he turns it around and around with a childlike wonderment.

“I was able to carve it myself,” Russia quickly explains. “While we were stationed without much fighting happening. I know that it is not much, but as you say, there is no time to shop.”

“No, no, this is great! Does it work?”

He brings it to his lips and blows out a sharp note before Russia is even able to mention that yes, it works and it’s quite loud. Russia has his hands over his ears, his new wallet even helps block out the sound, and America cringes at the volume himself.

“Whoops. Sorry.”

“No, it is fine. But.. do you like it?”

“I do, thank you! I’m gonna end up trying to get it on a chain so I can wear it while I’m over there. Hey, what are these?”

America points to a small batch of etchings carved into the back of his whistle, and Russia smiles.

“Ah, those are copies of the little pictures you were drawing on the chalkboard for our meeting one morning. I do not remember the style you said it was, but I try to copy it from what I did recall.”

America’s eyes widen and the dart back to the carvings. He stares down at them for a second longer, looking as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Oh my God… England was right, they are kinda dorky.”

He laughs then, and Russia joins him with a light chuckle of his own. Another silence reigns down on them afterwards, though this time it’s a lot more comfortable and warmer than it had been before.

“I’m glad that we’re allies now,” America eventually says and looks like he really means as much. “I didn’t get a chance to really talk to you in Tehran like I wanted but… I’ve missed you, y'know.”

To that, Russia doesn’t know what to say. He’s felt the same way, for some times now, and his only reaction to the confession is to clutch his gift all the more tightly and keep his hands in front of his chest just in case his heart feels the urge to come spilling out at such an inconvenient time from him feeling so much emotion. Unfortunately, his lapse into silence grants America the time needed to remember his plans with the others before his leave, and though sounding a bit apprehensive on leaving Russia’s company, he sighs and makes his way back to where he had been sitting when their meeting first began.

“I should get going,” he says and slips on his treasured bomber jacket. “They’re waiting on me and all, shouldn’t keep them… You don’t wanna join us? Hell, I’ll even help spot you on some food if that’s the problem.”

“Thank you, but no. I am afraid that I must be leaving as soon as possible. My boss is not wanting me to be away from frontlines for so long.”

It’s not the answer America wants to hear and it shows. Russia is disheartened to have been the cause of such an expression, but is also pleased for his company being so wanted.

“That’s a shame,” he says. He picks up his briefcase, comes to stand next to Russia once more. “Woulda really liked for you to hang around a little while longer.”

“When you come back, perhaps?” Russia suggests.

A small quirk of his lips.

“Yeah, okay. Better take care of yourself out there then, big guy.”

“You as well. Take care of yourself.”

With that he turns to leave, and as he does so, Russia immediately spots the large patches of twill that now covers a good portion of America’s back in the shape of the letter '50’. Unlike the others, it does not appear to just be a mere decoration. Something’s happened to his jacket, and he can’t help but want his curiosity sated.

“Amerika,” he calls. “Your jacket, it has patches now.”

At the door America looks confused for the moment before understanding what Russia means and ends up laughing once more.

“Oh yeah! Needed a bit of a patch job since I was missing some of it, so I thought this bit here with the big ol’ fifty would help hide it. Doesn’t match up, I know, but what can I do? Real leather’s hard to come by these days after all.”

He throws him a quick grin and a wink, disappears through the door leading out to the hall. It doesn’t take more than a second for Russia to understand the implications of his words and his breath hitches. His eyes dart immediately to the wallet in his hands and suddenly he’s shaking. His throat is tight once more and he buries his face into his hands as his smile grows so wide that his cheeks are now hurting.

He feels too happy, he’s afraid that he’ll burst.

**Author's Note:**

> -like i said in the tags, i wrote this back in 2013
> 
> -didn't edit it much, didn't feel like it needed it really
> 
> -idk if chris remembers i wrote this fic for them, but i know they liked it when they first read it then. sometimes that makes me happy, like it's something i can look back on and think that for an hour or so i made someone something that made them happy. ya know?
> 
> -i miss these boys. i would like to write them again.
> 
> -we'll see.


End file.
